Setting Sun
by DrinkTeaMDear
Summary: 'Germany leers over England, "Of course, they're all neutral. Isn't it wonderful? I don't have any enemies left in Europe."' USA never joined WWII, and NaziGermany triumphs. Kinkmeme deanon. Warning; some torture, OCdeath.
1. Setting Sun

**Setting Sun**

Germany's never looked so vicious. Sure, England knows that Germany's been _dangerous_, but here and now, at the feet of his victor, Germany's smile is _ruthless_.

"I've waited for this." Was the cold whisper, full of malevolent glee, "Last time you left me in _ruins_, but now, now it's my turn."

England stares resolutely ahead, avoiding eye-contact. He turns inward, feeling the heavy shackles on his wrists and the metal collar around his neck rubbing against blisters and open, festering wounds.

"The mighty British Empire. Stripped to his roots and in chains." Here, a chilling laugh that sounds his doom. "I heard you released some of your colonies. Smart move, but futile. They won't be able to cope with sudden independence; especially not some of the smaller ones."

England closes his eyes; he knows Germany speaks the truth, but some, hopefully most, would avoid falling into ruin, and it is better than anything Germany would do to them. England would like for them to have help, but France is in the next cell over and has been here longer than England has; he can not help them. After France fell, China had become more directly concerned with Japan, and Russia, wisely, pulled out before he lost anything. While China and Japan fought in the east, England was left to fend off both Germany and Italy (who became surprisingly more confident on the battlefield when he wasn't likely to lose) advancing from all sides of the continent. England had resorted to calling for troops pulled from colonies all over the world. But Canada, Australia, New Zealand and others were just too far away for their soldiers to arrive in time. England had sent telegraphs to his colonies, advising them of his defeat, their independence and telling them to recall their men immediately moments before Germany had barged in through his barricaded door. Best that something could be salvaged from all this.

A boot-clad foot comes down heavily on his head and England crumples from his kneeling position, sliding down the wall, feeling flesh blood trickle down the back of his head.

"I think," Germany muses as he places his boot on England's head, pressing down with increasing force, "that I'll move to the west next. Spain's been a pain in my ass. I'll take his provisions by force."

England can barely hear Germany's next words through the roaring in his skull. "Or south? We'll see how quickly Turkey stops being 'neutral'."

Germany finally releases England's head and the fallen nation gasps in ragged breaths, the sound of the blood rattling in his lungs intensifying the pain in head tenfold.

"Or north? Sweden. Blonde hair and blue eyes; that's what Hitler wants."

That cold, cruel laugh again, and Germany leers over England, "Of course, they're all neutral. Isn't it wonderful? I don't have any enemies left in Europe." A malicious smile crawls over the new super-power's face, "The British Empire, the last pin to fall. And what shall I do with you?"

A cane prods at England's cheek and continues to jab him sharply until his head rolls to face Germany, who's mockingly contemplative expression fades to a disgusted one, "Abandoned by America. Hilarious." But he doesn't laugh.

"To think," Germany breathes, "thirty odd years ago, I was where you are, and you were where I was." he pulls back and smiles almost wistfully, except there's a sadistic twist to his lips that just renders his expression grotesque. "Beautiful."

Germany's voice is almost a hiss, "And last time, you let me go. You left me desolate. But" and here Germany's voice hardens, business-like, "financial ruin made me what I am today, and I will not repeat your mistake. I will not let you go. Ever. You and that French bastard will never leave this building. I'll rule over your lands with an iron fist, and I'll watch _everything_. Your lands will fall into ruin and I won't care. You will never get the chance to defy me."

England licks his dry lips, readying himself for speech, "No."

It is the first word England has spoken in days. It rasps as it claws its way out of his throat.

"What was that?" Germany asks, face darkening. The standing nation takes a step forward, onto England's chest, pressing down hard.

England forces breaths into rattling lungs, bidding the coughs not rise. He speaks, barely a whisper and pausing often to gasp in raw, painful gulps of air, "When you spread yourself too thin, you will invariably collapse in upon yourself."

Germany's eyes narrow and England finishes with a breathy, "What do you think happened to the Roman Empire?"

The victorious nation flinches and pushes off England's chest with a vicious stomp that leaves England coughing and spluttering as he rolls onto his side, chains clanking.

Germany stares coolly as the other country coughs until he spits blood. He turns to the exit. "You underestimate me. I will not fail. Unlike you, I have allies."

The door slams shut with a finality that rings through England's bones. But he is too caught up in the irony of the Germany's last word. Intentional, no doubt. But still, it's funny. Crumpled in a cell, burdened with chains that rub him raw, the once-empire giggles. Giggles turn to chuckles, until he is rocking with the force of his laughter. And at last, it is England's turn to laugh, alone, and hysterically.


	2. Parabellum

**Parabellum**

Notes: Right, so I pretty much wrote this at 2am on a Thursday night when I had uni bright and early the next day (so yeah, not overly happy with it). It follows from "Setting Sun" but if you're not overly fond of OCs in your fanfiction (and I'm usually not), this might not appeal to you. It's just supposed to provide a snapshot of what England (the land, not the country) has become, I suppose.

_-The worst thing is that England can feel them. As they grow; a little spot of warmth in his left thigh, his right forearm and just to the left of his navel. They flicker with heat and he hopes for them, fears for them, daren't let his feelings show. -_

Lawrence Packham had lost his father in the war. He had been a brave man, so his mother had said, had given his life for King and Country. A King killed twelve years ago and a country-turned-territory (_"__das __Territorium von __England" they called it_). Wasn't it all pointless then? Heavens no! His mother would say, he was a noble man, paying the ultimate sacrifice in an attempt to keep his family, his home, safe. She was killed six months after the war had ended, after Germany had invaded, in the initial panic, anarchy and riots following the graphic, very publicised butchering of the King, his family and the members of parliament. His sister had become wild, joined rioters who cared only for themselves and had eventually fallen into prositution in her desperation for food. She had heard of the crowd he had gotten in with, "I don't like the sound of that, Rent, not one bit." She had only been concerned, but he had snapped a cutting retort, "says the whore". She had slapped him and he hadn't seen her since.

Now Lawrence stares morosely ahead for other eyes as he trudges through what remains of Manchester, trying to look as though he was wandering as aimlessly as those around him, makes sure to keep a firm grip on the few coins he has as a group of hard eyed children jostle past him. He meanders his way around a bend, into an alley, one of the few places in the city CCTV can't see. He nods at a man, sat slouched against a bloodstained wall, clad in rags but fortunate enough to have a solid looking coat as he desperately smokes the butt of a cigarette. The man returns the nod and points the stubbly remains of the once-cigarette at the steps leading down.

Lawrence knocks on the door in the Morse code for "SOS". It's opened and he joins seven revolutionaries (_rebels, rabble_) crammed in a pub's small storage. They're missing a few, but given the current climate, that's to be expected.

"Right lads! First order of business. We got that guard post, but it's about time we moved onto bigger things, don't you think? Raiding their ammunition stocks should shore up ours supplies nicely."

_-Because he fears (knows) what will happen, what has happened to every other one before, but he can't help that flicker of hope.-_

There's a knock at the door, S-O-S. Lawrence checks his watch. Looks like they're late; they've already run through the basic plan and the blueprints are on the wall. Someone tears them down before another goes to answer door, "Code?"

A gruff voice on the other side of the door answers with "We've never had a code, y'tosser!"

Everyone in the room relaxes but Lawrence.

The door swings open and suddenly the man (_rebel, revolutionary, corpse_) who opened the door is on the floor, splattered with blood and the others are falling in sprays of bullets.

It's all rather spectacular, Lawrence thinks, as the last one falls, making a run for the door to the pub. Rubbish, foolish, it'd be overrun by now. He glances over at the German forces scrabbling through the documents and papers, trying to save them from the red stain of blood, and throws his hands up as the commander turns his hand gun to him.

"Don't shoot, you fool! Who the fuck do you think I am?"

The German commander lowers his weapon, "Ah, you are the informant?" in heavily accent English.

"Too right I am. We had a deal?"

"Of course. You have the sister? Do not worry, I am sure she will be taken care of."

The ominous wording has Lawrence's eyes snapping back to the man with a shiny metal pin "ETKG" (_Englisch __Territory __Kooperationen __Garde, or really, "The Guard" was good enough outside the ranks_).

"However," There, the death knell ringing in his ears, "I have been instructed that we are not to let any English leave this place."

Before Lawrence Packham could even draw breath to protest with, he had a 9mm Luger buried in his brain.

_-And when that warmth expires, is snuffed out and suddenly there's this aching cold where before there had been such hope, England knows what's happened, knows as Germany enters his cell for the first time in years, slams the door, and pain blooms, knows he's too far from them for anything to happen, knows it'll only get worse, hates and hopes for those little spots of rebellion -_


End file.
